Compromised for Christmas (The Jennings Family #1)

1. Fitz

1

Fitz

Thornfield Hall,

Jennings Family Country Seat

Kent, England

Christmastide Ball

December 1816

THE HONORABLE FITZWILLIAM JENNINGS, younger brother to the Earl of Bentley and next in line for the earldom, nearly always had his nose buried in a book. Which was why, when he entered his drawing room at his family’s country estate, he failed to notice something was different in his domain.

Breasts.

Naked breasts.

Glorious breasts.

Dear Lord. This was the correct drawing room, was it not? The one he had repurposed as his study for working on his Italian translations? Yes, there was his desk. And there was his settee. With breasts on it.

His eyes stretched wide, so wide the room grew blurry. He attempted to rub his vision clear and was immediately met with glass and metal. Right. Spectacles—which he wore for reading, not distance.

He hastily removed them. But the breasts were still there.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” the breasts said in a low, husky voice.

Wait. No. That couldn’t be correct. Those words, and now a curse, came from the woman the breasts belonged to.

Oh my God, there is a bare-bosomed woman in your study, Fitz.

And what did a man do when presented with a bare bosom? He fled, of course.

Fitz dropped his spectacles and book, slapped a hand over his eyes, and spun toward the exit of his study. “My a-apologies, my lady. Miss. Ma’am.” He rushed to the door, or at least what he was fairly certain was the—

Crack!

Bloody fuck.

His skull rang and throbbed like a gong. He sucked in a sharp breath and clutched his aching head, stumbling backwards. Holy buggering ballocks, that bloody hurt. His heel connected with something and—

Fitz’s back collided with the floor. Oomph. The air shot from his lungs, and his eyes slammed shut as pain ricocheted through his head. Now the back of his skull screamed in pain, too. Along with his back. And his arse.

“Oh my God!” a feminine voice squealed. “Are you hurt?” The rustle of skirts interrupted the incessant throbbing in his head, and then small hands prodded his chest, then patted his cheeks. “My lord? Are you well? Can you speak?”

He hesitantly opened his eyes. And the answer was, in fact, no. No, he wasn’t well. And no, he couldn’t speak. Because breasts. There were so many breasts. Well. Not so many. There were only two, he supposed. But dear God. Breasts. In his face. Breasts. Did he say breasts?

He went to speak, but all he managed was a groan. The woman’s slim blonde eyebrows pinched, her gaze darting over him as though looking for the source of his pain. Too bad the pain was everywhere. From his pride to his posterior.

Heat seared his cheeks, and his all-too-familiar embarrassment caught up with him. As did his nervous sweating. Someone shouldn’t be able to sweat this much when it was as frigid as tits outside.

Urghh. Why did you think of tits, Fitz?

It wasn’t enough he had just run into a pair of breasts—which was nerve-inducing all in itself—but the bosom belonged to the loveliest flaxen-haired, rosy-cheeked woman he’d ever seen.

Fitz was tongue-tied and tactless by default, but when he was around a beautiful woman? Let’s just say there was a reason he rarely attended balls or soirées or supper parties or places where there were people. Hence why he was about to hide in his study while a ball went on at his country estate.

“My lord?” the woman said again, concern coating her words.

And then she slapped him.

His gaze shot to hers, and his mouth popped open. “Did you just slap me?”

Well, would you look at that, Fitzy. You found some words!

A breath exploded from her, and her body slumped. Egads, now her breasts dangled tantalizingly close to his face. He gulped. Audibly. Which only had him inhaling her cinnamon-sweet scent. Sodding hell. She would smell like the very essence of Christmas.

His gaze darted between her all-too pouty pink lips and her all-too perky pink nipples. Did she taste like Christmas, too…

“Oh, thank goodness,” she was saying, blessedly interrupting that train of thought. “I feared you had done irreparable damage or some such when you seemed unable to speak.”

He frowned. Was the woman unaware that her bosom was exposed? She was leaning over him, chattering away about—well, he wasn’t actually certain. The combination of diddies in his face and knocks to the dome had made him deaf and dumb.

“Would you cover yourself?” he finally managed tersely. Before he did something outrageous. Like lick a stranger’s nipples.

She tensed, and he winced. That had come out a touch boorish. But damnation, the woman seemed to have no compunction about waggling her wobblers in his face.

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” she said stiffly. “How terribly thoughtless of me to come rushing to your aid and not cover myself beforehand. I hope I have not offended your delicate sensibilities.”

Sweat trickled down the nape of his neck. He was botching this. If that was even possible. If something started out botched, was there even room for further botching?

Fitz botched it even further.

“Urrrgung…”

Lovely, Fitz. What in the bloody hell was that supposed to be?

She cocked her head. “Pardon?” She blinked down at him through thick, blonde lashes. Blonde lashes that framed vibrant green irises currently clouded in confusion. “Maybe I should ring for help.” She drew out the words. “I fear you did damage your brain.”

No, he really hadn’t. This was actually quite normal for Fitz.

Unfortunately.